


On a Saturday

by maxads



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: The Breakfast Club Au, but like not really, i guess, just that general idea u feel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2019-03-27 08:44:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13877343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maxads/pseuds/maxads
Summary: literally just a Breakfast Club / Raven Cycle AU except Henry Cheng can't keep himself out of other people's business.





	1. one

It all started on a Saturday.

Technically, really, if one wanted to dive into the great deep depths of _specifics_ , it had actually started on a Monday and then dragged itself out from there. Ronan Lynch had threatened to punch his Latin teacher— that was what had really kicked it all off. Lynch did this, Lynch did that. If it was any of Henry Cheng's business (which it wasn't,) Ronan Lynch did a lot of crap. The only difference between all those times and this one was that Richard Gansey hadn't been around to save the day.

Then, on Tuesday, a nobody named Adam Parrish had missed one too many classes (or so Henry had heard,) and then on Wednesday Dick Gansey the Third had followed suit. Henry's theory? The pair was actually caught up in a secret relationship and couldn't manage to be a few hours away from each other without falling to pieces. Was it plausible? Probably not. But that didn't stop Henry from joking to Koh about it in the halls.

Koh didn't get the joke, though. He didn't even know who Adam Parrish was.

It had been Henry Cheng's own downfall that had made him so invested in the story, though. One slight misstep was all it took, and _bam!_ — an on-the-weekend detention monitored by Aglionby's finest. Normally, Aglionby Academy wasn't the type to hand out all-day detentions. Lynch got them all the time (or so Henry had heard) but never bothered to show up, and the majority of Aglionby's students followed his example. The two worst things the school could do, after all, was either A) give them another detention the following weekend, or B) threaten to expel them, and everyone knew that Aglionby liked its money _just a bit too much_ to turn down an offer that had them looking the other way. When it came down to it, no one really showed up.

But this time the darling Dick Gansey was invited, and wherever Dick went, Henry closely followed. That much was just a fact, as unfortunate as it sounded.

"You don't have to come with me," Henry said apologetically, stepping out of the car. Cheng2 gave him a smile that wasn't quite there, and Henry scoffed, shoulders drooping. "You've been telling me you were coming with me this whole time, and yet you weren't even planning on coming with me?"

Cheng2 shrugged. "No way, man. I don't wanna get caught up in _there_."

_There_. Cheng2 spoke of it like it was a death sentence— maybe it was.

"It can't be that bad," Henry defended, pushing the door shut. In reality, he hadn't ever wanted Cheng2 to come along, and had asked him to be his driver because he knew that, when it came down to it, he would leave Henry to fend for himself. Trailing along in Henry's footsteps was one thing that Cheng2 did well. Caring about the rich, slightly-conceited-and-obviously-oblivious-to-it Gansey? Cheng2 was fortunate to not have shared such interests.

Cheng2 raised his hands and mouthed ' _sorry_ ' through the window. 

Henry pretended to look hurt.

Cheng2 sped off, honking the horn twice as a small signal of goodbye.

Henry couldn't have been more glad.

In truth, his one slight misstep hadn't actually been an accident. It would have been more interesting if it was— if it had been _fate_ that had brought the curious Henry Cheng and the odd Dick Gansey together, but it wasn't. Instead, it had been Henry Cheng hearing about Dick's misfortune from another student, and then desperately trying to find ways to get himself in detention thereafter. What else could he do? In the halls, Dick was bombarded with classmates and friends and social circles that had never been within a miles radius of Henry's grasp. No, no— it hadn't been _fate_. It had been the clean-cut product of Henry's careful planning; doing the wrong thing at the right time, right in the view of someone with enough of a god-complex to punish him for it.

Henry knew people thought he was smart, but he liked to give himself more credit.

He strolled in through Aglionby's _Welch Hall_ doors with his backpack hanging from only one shoulder— a look that said ' _I care a lot about my grades_ ' because he had bothered to bring it in the first place, but also ' _I would totally throw myself off a bridge if you asked me how my GPA is doing_ ' because he hadn't bothered to wear it properly. Henry took in a deep breath, examined his reflection through the windows to make sure his uniform had just the right amount of dishevelment, and then made his way to the library. It was all true what people said about Aglionby Academy, and Henry was perfectly aware that people said a lot. It was a school for bastards, a school for rich kids, a school for the entitled and the privileged and the future dickwads of society. It showed in the school's design— brick walls, archways galore, floors that clicked when walked on, and academic successes and certificates plastered to every surface that eyes could see. Henry hardly payed attention to any of it as he strolled by. Soon enough he would be graduated, and then he could busy himself with all the things that mattered more than whatever pretentious ring of hell that Algionby was. The 'real world' was just a mere exchange of one unfavourable circumstance for another one that looked just like it, Henry knew, though he considered himself to be an optimist in his ways of hoping that there would be significantly less bullshit to deal with once he got there. Less rings to hop through, less ladders to climb. . .

. . .Less Dick Gansey's to impress. Henry wasn't saying that he _disliked_ wanting to get on Dick's radar, he just wished that he didn't _need_ it. 

The library, by its silence, could have fooled Henry into believing that it was empty if not for the four miserable students that sat sparingly at the wooden desks. They all sat slouched, they all looked dead, and they all glanced up at Henry as he pushed open the doors. Fight or flight kicked in, and without doing so much as examining his new companions he picked the first empty desk closest to him. Someone let out a cough, and only then did Henry Cheng realize he had forgotten to take off his bag.

"You brought that?" Lynch asked, his voice unmistakable even if Henry hadn't looked up to see his face. He could hear the sneer in his words, and he knew that Lynch was grinning his viper grin. "Come on, man, it's not like we're gonna do actual work."

Henry dropped his backpack on the floor and unzipped it. "I have to study."

"Are you fucking serious?"

"Ronan," another voice chipped in, and Henry immediately looked up.

Richard Campbell Gansey III was a beautiful human being— that much was unquestionable. He had the hair, the face, the fashion, the _name_ (even if it sounded better than it looked on paper,) and Lord knew what else. He was the epitome of what Aglionby strived to be, the Poster Child of the sort of students it had intended to teach. Rich without being extravagant, condescending without being mean, polite without giving all his power away. All people had to do was _glance_ at Dick Gansey and Henry was certain that their lives got better. It was either that or they were reminded from his fortunes of how much greatness their own lives lacked. Whichever one, Henry didn't care. All he thought that day when _he_ saw Dick Gansey sitting slouched in the library was: _why does he always make me look like such shit?_

Richard Campbell Gansey III looked as if he had rolled out of bed, pulled on his uniform, and had made a half-assed attempt at readying his hair before dragging Lynch's lazy ass out the door. Still, he did it all with style. He wore his wire-framed glasses— a feature that Henry had only ever caught glimpses of, and the subtle bags under his eyes pricked Henry's mind with all sorts of curiosities. What did Dick Gansey have to do at night? Was he studying? Was he out on one of his weird quests? He wasn't dating anyone— or was he? Henry didn't know. Henry _wanted_ to know. 

Henry figured that he was thinking far too much about Dick Gansey to be practical.

He wanted to snap a reply back at Lynch, but he couldn't risk getting on anyone's bad side so early into the day. There was stuff to be done, progress to be made, and making an angry bull a bitter one certainly wasn't the way to do it. Instead, Henry pulled out one of his law textbooks and dropped it on his desk, making sure to let it land with a hard _thud_. Lynch scoffed, but he heeded to Dick's warning and kept away.

"Whelk hasn't come in yet," someone else spoke up, and Henry lifted his head to look this time. He didn't know the speaker formally, or even informally at that, but Henry was too deep in Aglionby's business to be completely ignorant on who the boy was. Adam Parrish was a genius, a hard-worker, and above all of that: a scholarship student. If they had gone to any other school, Henry and him may have been friends. But they didn't, and so they weren't, and all Henry had to think of him was that he was completely and utterly unimportant until the Universe decided he wasn't anymore. "Just so you know."

"Thanks," Henry said, and he left it at that.

Barrington Whelk was Aglionby's Latin teacher. Henry didn't care much for Latin, and he didn't care much for Whelk, but as with everything that Henry didn't particularly care for, he still knew a great deal about both. Whelk was a stick of a man with features that seemed too big for his face, and he had an attitude that was enough to make his students' skin crawl. Apparently, he had been some sort of hotshot quite some years ago, but his fall from grace hadn't exactly treated him kindly. He was brooding, he was bitter, and he seemed to seek vengeance on any living thing that smiled. 

Henry wouldn't have lasted a minute with him alone. 

"What do you think the fuckwad is gonna have us do?" Lynch asked, and Henry heard the creak his chair gave as he leaned backwards. Henry flipped a page in his textbook, his eyes barely registering the words as he listened. "Write an essay about our feelings, or send us straight to the coal mines?"

Dick Gansey let out a sigh. "You're being unreasonable."

"I'm perfectly reasonable."

" _Perfectly reasonable_ does not involve calling Whelk a _fuckwad_."

Lynch scoffed. "Don't act like you don't think he is."

"Of course I think he is," Dick muttered, tapping his pencil on the desk. "I just have the mind not to say it out loud in the open, where he can very well be able to hear it if he just so happens to decide to join us."

"I hope he's dead."

"Jesus, Ronan."

Henry couldn't pretend to study law anymore. The longer he stared at the words, the less the world around him seemed to make sense, and the less he could focus on what really mattered. He finally looked up, and that was when Barrington Whelk strolled into the room.

_Right on cue_ , Henry thought. The world was so fascinating.

Dick Gansey and Lynch shut up immediately.

"What a terrific turnout," Whelk said blandly as he approached them, his large eyes void of any emotion that matched the word terrific. Terri _fying_ , maybe. Whelk always looked spiritually dead. "Last week there was zero of you, and now it's up to four. Inspiring, truly. I am amazed."

_Four_. Henry glanced behind him, silently swearing that there had been five of them.

Dick Gansey held up a hand, and begrudgingly Whelk gestured for him to speak. "Mr. Whelk," Dick started, clearing his throat. "I hope you don't mind, but I have a row team meeting at three o'clock today so I won't be able to—"

"Halt right there, Richard," Whelk said, waving his hand in dismissal. "You chose to show up; you chose to follow the rules. Headmaster Child made it so Saturday detentions go until four o'clock. No one leaves— If I have to spend my day here, you mutts do too. Is that clear?"

Dick smiled his gracious smile. "Right, of course. Crystal clear, sir."

_Crystal clear_. Henry opened his mouth, mimicking the way Dick Gansey had said it.

Whelk's focus snapped towards him. "Something funny?"

Henry closed his mouth. "Sorry, sir?"

"That face you just made. What the hell was that?"

Henry glanced sideways, painfully aware that both Dick Gansey and Lynch were casting him curious stares. He dragged his gaze back to Whelk, who was glaring at him expectingly. "It was nothing, sir. Sorry."

"What's your name?"

"Henry Cheng."

" _Cheng_ ," Whelk repeated, scowling as he spoke. Henry had never thought his name to particularly amazing (at least, it wasn't on par with _Richard-freaking-Campbell Gansey the Third_ ) but the way Whelk had said it made it sound like it was a damned curse. "Congratulations, you just earned everyone here the grand honour of writing essays. They're due by the end of the day, by the way. And I'll be sending an e-mail out to your homeroom teachers so that you may have the pleasure of having them be properly graded."

Lynch snatched Dick's pencil and flung it in Henry's direction, and Henry nearly forgot to dodge. 

"Sir?" Parrish spoke up, raising a hand. "What's the topic on?"

"Hm," Whelk pondered, though Henry doubted there was any actual thinking going on inside his head. He didn't mean to gloat, but he figured that he had the ability to spot a bullshitter from a mile away, and Whelk was only standing at about eight feet. "Humour me. Pick whatever topic you want, so long as it's professional and— Mr. Lynch, this applies especially to you— academically appropriate."

Parrish made a face that Henry couldn't quite interpret, and he wasn't sure if he was emotionally devastated or boredly satisfied with the answer. Henry stared, scrunching up his eyebrows, then turned away and snuck another glance at Dick Gansey.

Dick Gansey, of course, looked as if he had just been blessed.

"Sir?" Parrish spoke up again, his hand staying down this time. "What if _you're_ our homeroom teacher?"

Whelk scowled. "Then the essay better be the best thing you've written all year, because I'll now be counting it as an actual assignment. Does that sound fun? I'm glad you asked."

Another pencil flew, though not at Henry this time.

"Way the fuck to go, Parrish," Lynch muttered.

"Language," Henry caught Dick hiss. 

"You can write an essay in three seconds with your eyes closed," Lynch hissed back.

Henry slumped backwards in his seat, grateful to not have taken an interest in Latin, but dreading his judgement of being able to handle the day alone. He silently swore at himself, chiding at his decision to bring Cheng2 along. Koh would have been the better choice, clearly. He wouldn't have intervened with anything that Henry had planned to do, but he would have provided the exact company that Henry now needed.

In an odd, particular sort of way, Henry felt unfairly alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yolo bye


	2. two

Henry Cheng had never considered himself to be good at writing essays. He wasn't terrible at them (because _terrible_ was a word to be used only for much more excruciating circumstances) but he wasn't exactly _spectacular_ , either. Not mediocre, though. If Henry ever caught himself being mediocre at anything that mattered, he figured he'd have to give up trying to get on Dick Gansey's radar completely. If he ever wanted to be more than just a speck of insignificance— more than someone that people passed by and never thought twice of, then _mediocre_ just simply wouldn't do.

It was impractical, and Henry knew it. He hated it.

But _Dick Gansey_ wasn't mediocre at anything, and so Henry knew that he couldn't be, either.

"Careful," Lynch said, stealing Henry's train of thought right out from under him. "If you think too hard, your brain might spontaneously combust."

Henry didn't want to imagine the possibility of Lynch actually _speaking_ to him. He wouldn't have, under normal circumstances, but Dick Gansey had gotten up to use the washroom and hadn't come back yet, and Parrish had made it clear that he wasn't at a Saturday detention to make _friends_. He had moved himself five tables away from the rest of them, all the way nearing the back of the library. Henry was envious, sort of. But he was a man on a mission, and there were too many things to be done to give in to self-seclusion.

Henry lifted his head, finally taking his eyes away from his paper. His brain felt like it had spent the past hour working hard, but the only thing to show for it was that he had managed to write down his name. "I just want a good grade, man," he groaned, though he knew he wouldn't drop below an A no matter what mess he ended up submitting. Still, Lynch was none the wiser. "Is that so bad?"

"It'd be better if you actually managed to fucking write something," Lynch said, scowling at him. "Do you know how painful it's been to watch you glare down at your paper all morning? Do _something_ , dude."

Henry frowned. "I'm planning."

"What?"

"My essay," Henry clarified, twirling his pen. "I'm _planning_ it."

Lynch eyed him skeptically, then held up his own sheet of paper for Henry to see. Surprisingly, there were actual words on it. "I've got more done than you, and I haven't planned shit."

Henry's eyes glanced back down to his own paper, which was still hopelessly blank. He felt a twinge of panic beginning to form in his stomach— there was no way he was about to be academically bested by _Lynch_. By Parrish, he could deal with. But by that seething hellraiser of a boy? _Not a chance._ Henry clung on to his courage before he could force down a reply.

_Cue_ , of course, _Dick Gansey_.

The boy waltzed back in to the library with an aura of both ' _Look how cool I am_ ' and ' _I honestly don't know I'm this cool, I'm just walking,_ ' and Henry figured it would be best if he held his tongue and kept his mouth shut. No witty remark would be worth making himself look bad, anyhow, no matter how much he wanted to deliver one. Lynch raised an eyebrow at him and flashed a knowing grin, but Henry let it go.

"Making friends?" Dick Gansey asked, sliding down into his chair.

"Nah," Lynch said breezily, shifting his attention back to the person who mattered more. Henry didn't want to be on quite the same level as a lapdog (though he wouldn't dare say that to Lynch's face), but his heart lurched as the pair drifted into easy conversation that didn't include him. If he and Lynch had the chance to swap places, Henry would have lunged for it. _Fought_ for it. Lynch had everything in the world that Henry wanted, which Henry was entirely aware of being depressing, because it was nothing more than the attention of a curious boy with out-dated glasses and a mind that took too much time to decipher. 

Henry couldn't understand what it was exactly that made Dick Gansey so special. All he knew was that he was, and that Lynch couldn't be bothered with being able to see it. He leaned backwards in his chair and listened, then frowned when the discussion consisted of nothing more than which toppings they'd like on their eventual pizza. Henry was better than that, wasn't he? And if he wasn't, why couldn't he be?

_You have an essay to write_ , he chided himself, leaning forward again and snapping his eyes back to his paper. He didn't know why he had told Lynch that he had spent the hour _planning_ — he hadn't. He had spent the hour being petty, and grim, and thinking of all the ways he could worm himself into Dick Gansey's life without coming across as a pest. Was it possible? Dick Gansey had people he talked to, sure, but he didn't really have _friends_. No one aside from Lynch, anyway. Dick Gansey talked and chatted and smiled and laughed, but Henry had watched him enough times to see the cracks in the facade— to witness the few, sparing moments where the act had threatened to break. When he was on his own, Dick Gansey didn't smile. Dick Gansey didn't _shine_. It was what made him so damn interesting, Henry thought, because how could someone with a social circle as big as his possibly feel _alone?_ And worse than that, how could someone with a social circle as big as his possibly have only _one_ fucking friend?

Henry's chances were slim, that much was certain. Once again, he wouldn't be able to let Fate do his bidding— he'd have to do it himself.

Heny glanced over one more time, wincing when he caught Dick Gansey smile. Lynch had said something stupid, probably. Something that Henry hadn't paid the mind to catch. Something that Henry wished _he_ could have said, because that would have meant he and Dick Gansey were talking, and that Dick Gansey thought he was something worth smiling at. It _hadn_ 't been him, though, and so Henry dragged his gaze away and tried to convince himself it wasn't something worth feeling hurt over. He'd have what he wanted eventually. Somehow. Even if he had to wait a million years for it, he'd get it. 

_Patience_ , he thought to himself, tapping his pen steadily against the table. _Write your stupid essay. Make your stupid friends. Play the stupid game._

All of this was just a game, Henry reminded himself. A game played _by_ the elite, _for_ the elite, courtesy _of_ the elite. He wasn't fond of it. It was a game of who was allowed to do what and who was allowed to go where; a game that Henry had no choice but to win, or come second at, or at the very least do anything but lose. He'd worked too hard for too long to get this far, after all. He'd spent too many years trying to wedge his way to someone like Dick Gansey's side, and finally he was nearly there. He was so close that he reach for it— but if he reached too soon, he'd drop it, and just like that all his hard work would have been for nothing.

_Patience_. 

Henry couldn't let himself lose. He had too many people— too many factors— riding on his success. 

"You look stuck."

If anyone asked, Henry did not nearly jump out of his seat. No way. He most certainly did, however, hear Lynch snicker, and that was enough to cause his face to go red.  


He looked up to see a boy, probably around his age, staring down at him with a glum expression and a disheveled uniform. Unlike Henry, the boy looked _messy_ — not tragically hip. Henry peered, narrowing his eyes in suspicion. For someone who was up to his ears in Aglionby's business, he had no idea who the student was. 

"Um," was all Henry said. He wasn't particularly fond of being at a a loss for words.

"With your essay," the boy nodded down to Henry's complete lack of work. "I can help, if you want. I'm not good at writing either, though. But—"

"— I'm fine, man. Thanks," Henry interjected quickly, turning away. "You should focus on your own, right? No use bothering with mine."

"I'm already done."

Henry froze.

"The essay," the boy added, bringing his hands together. 

The sound of a chair screeching backwards drew both their attentions away.

"Finished! It's beautiful!" Lynch announced (obnoxiously, _of course_ ), standing up and stretching his arms. Henry watched, annoyed. "Anyone else up for a break? It's brutal in here." 

Dick Gansey reached for Lynch's paper, blatantly skeptical, and promptly frowned at it. He adjusted his glasses, as if to make sure he was reading it right. "You wrote two paragraphs, Ronan."

"That's all I needed."

"Where's your thesis?"

"I couldn't think of one."

"Your concluding sentence is 'and that's all, folks'— did you seriously quote _Looney Tunes?_ In a formal essay? Whelk is going to kill you once he reads this, you can't—."

"—I don't care, _Richard_ ," Ronan groaned, snatching his paper back and shoving it in the front pocket of his jeans. "He was probably bluffing when he said he'd get them marked, anyway. Lazy piece of shit."

_Lazy piece of shit_. Henry scoffed, his palm muffling his mouth as he rested his chin in his hand. Lynch sure was one to talk. Henry had met a lot of interesting people in his life— criminals, mansion barons, gamblers, obnoxious risk-takers, but Lynch was a different breed entirely. He didn't _deserve_ what he had, he didn't even come close, and Henry was even starting to wonder if he even knew what he had to begin with. Lynch could talk about authority with a complete, obnoxious, ignorant disregard. _Lazy piece of shit_. He didn't _care_. He didn't _know_.

If someone caught Henry talking like that, he'd be sat in the Headmaster's office so fast he wouldn't even be able to blink. If he handed in a two paragraph essay, with no thesis, quoting _Looney Tunes_ of all things, there'd be a long, drawn out talk about _respect_ and _responsibility_ , and how his behaviour was a reflection of Aglionby as a whole. No one would stand for it. No one would let it pass.

But Lynch was Lynch, and Henry was Henry, and they were _different_. 

Lynch could afford not to care. Henry couldn't.

Lynch didn't know what a consequence was. Henry did.

Lynch was careless. Henry's whole life depended on not making a single misstep.

Henry forced his frustration back, then picked up his pen and began writing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow!! an update!! 
> 
> I wish I could have made this longer, but I've been writing it for two weeks (which is nothing compared to how long the first chapter took) and I'm sick of it! I just want them to get to Nino's already, but alas. Friendship takes time.

**Author's Note:**

> this will update sparingly or not at all lmao the last fanfiction i wrote was for pjo and i was like 14


End file.
